Nadine

Nadine
Nadine
My heart tightens in my chest as worst-case scenarios flood my mind. No, this can't be happening. I shake my head, trying to push the thought away.
Logan isn’t in his bed. No one called to tell me he was being moved. And a transfer? That’s impossible—this is one of the best hospitals in New York, a place the elite trust with their lives.
I step inside the room, and my stomach drops. Everything is gone. The machines, the sheets—everything I saw last night has been packed away.
No. No, this can’t be. Logan can’t die. He’s the most stubborn person I know. If anyone could cheat death, it would be him.
I whisper the words under my breath, but even as I say them, they sound hollow.
Then, like a bolt of lightning, panic strikes. I rush out of the room, clutching my chest.
This pain—it’s unbearable.
My breath comes in short gasps as I near the elevator, but suddenly, my chest feels even heavier. It’s like I can’t breathe.
A sharp pain shoots through me, forcing me to stop.
This isn’t good. I need to stay strong, no matter what. I refuse to assume the worst.
But then, a voice sneers in my head. "He’s probably dead… and you have blood on your hands."
Samantha. It sounds just like her, sharp and cruel.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to steady. I can’t fall apart now. I need to get myself checked before I collapse.
Just as I reach the front desk, I notice something that makes my steps falter.
The receptionist doesn’t smile at me.
She always does.
And suddenly, I don’t think I’m ready to hear what she has to say.
"Hello, Mrs. West."
I swallow hard before speaking. "Hi, I just checked my husband’s room, and... it’s empty. I can’t find him there."
The receptionist’s face softens. "Oh, I’m so sorry about that. Let me run a check."
She starts typing away on the computer while I watch her, my fingers tapping restlessly against the barricade between us. My foot taps against the floor, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might break free from my chest.
She’s taking too long. It shouldn't take this long. She should be swift. Efficient.
Then, she looks up at me, just for a second. That moment makes me take her in.
She notices my gaze and quickly looks back at the screen. "I still need to double-check."
I exhale sharply. "Take your time," I say, my voice tight, strained—like I’m barely holding back my frustration.
She finally looks up again, and I see it.
Pity.
I hate that look. I hate it with every fiber of my being. But I don’t have time to dwell on it. Right now, I just need answers.
My head starts shaking before she even speaks. My ears are ringing, and my heart is pounding so loudly it drowns out every other sound.
Then, she says it.
"I’m sorry... we lost him. He’s been moved to the morgue."
I step back.
No.
The air I’m breathing suddenly feels toxic, like it’s turning to poison inside my lungs, choking me.
No. This can’t be. This can’t be true.
I force myself to take a deep breath. She must have gotten the wrong person. That has to be it.
Slowly, I push myself to stand, my emotions unraveling all at once. My mind races. What could have happened between last night and now?
"Check again, please. There must be a mistake."
She swallows and shakes her head. "I double-checked, ma’am. You saw—I took my time."
My chest tightens.
"Okay," I whisper, stepping away.
I can’t breathe.
Panic claws at my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs. Desperate, I look around for a seat and lower myself onto it before I collapse under the weight of my emotions.
My hands start to tremble, slick with sweat. The room feels unbearably small like the walls are closing in on me. My eyes darted around, searching—hoping—for a miracle.
Maybe Logan will walk out any second now. Maybe he’ll scoop me into his arms and tell me everything is going to be okay.
But he doesn’t.
He won’t.
He left me.
He’s lying in the morgue.
How could he just be there—cold, still—while I’m here, falling apart? How could he not fight his way back to me? To Shawn?
This isn’t fair. Life isn’t fair.
I shake my head, refusing to accept it. My brain refuses to process the words I just heard. My gut tells me it’s all wrong—Logan isn’t dead.
But you heard her.
The voice in my head is sharp and relentless.
The room is empty. His family was probably here already, checking on him while you overslept.
A heavyweight crushes my chest. I can’t take this. I can’t do this.
Before I even realize what’s happening, a scream rips from my throat—a raw, heart-wrenching sound that shakes me to my core.
The entire room falls silent.
Every head turns toward me, eyes wide with shock.
But I don’t care.
Because the pain inside me is too much to bear.
My chest tightens, vibrating with shock as I take in the faces staring at me. Some are filled with pity, while others hold expressions that make me feel like I’m an inconvenience—like my grief is disrupting their peace.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to speak. "Can I see the doctor?" My voice shakes, but I push through.
I need answers. I need to know why no one had the decency to call me earlier, to update me on Logan’s condition before it was too late.
The receptionist hesitates before responding. "I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait. He’s in consultation with another patient right now."
"In his office?" I repeat, more to myself than to her.
She barely nods before I turn on my heel and walk away. I don’t wait for permission. I can’t.
Each step toward his office feels impossibly heavy, my legs are weak, and my vision is slightly blurred. My hands are slick with sweat, and my body is barely keeping up with my thoughts. But I shake it off, pushing forward, one step at a time.
When I reach his office door, I hesitate. Barging in would be rude—I was just told he’s in the middle of a consultation. So, I force myself to sit in one of the chairs in the waiting area.
The wait feels endless, stretching out like time itself has slowed just to prolong my suffering.
Then, finally, the door opens.
The doctor steps out, and without wasting a second, I rise to my feet. "Hello, Doctor," I say, my words rushed, my heart pounding.
He looks at me, his expression calm—too calm. "Ah, Mrs. West. Good to see you," he says with a smile.
A smile.
How can he be smiling when my entire world is falling apart?
I can’t form a long, composed sentence. My voice comes out in a whisper, shaky and raw.
"My husband…?"
The doctor’s face changes slightly, the smile fading. He exhales, preparing to speak.
"Your husband is…"